


The Cupcake Cheers

by destimushi



Series: The Cupcake Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Baker Castiel (Supernatural), Bossy Castiel, Christmas, Christmas Smut, Cupcake Police, Dom/sub Undertones, Edgeplay, Eggnog, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Prostate Milking, Rockstar Dean, Vibrators, castiel has a dirty mouth, cupcake verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 00:52:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12923814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destimushi/pseuds/destimushi
Summary: “Stroke faster, Dean. Use more lube if you have to, get close for me, baby.”Dean keens and jams his free fist into his mouth, his other hand moving in a blur as he chases his orgasm like his ass is on fire. It’s so close he can see it. Taste it. Feel it. Just needs a little more, a nudge, a scrape of fingernail and Oh fucking Christ—Working through Christmas isn't ideal, but the energy and emotional responses from his fans keep Dean going. When he gets back to his hotel after a successful show, a suspiciously familiar pink box greets him.





	The Cupcake Cheers

**Author's Note:**

> This little verse is getting away with me, and I have zero regrets. Some porn, some fluff, and a bossy af Cas to boot. Merry Christmas, everyone <3.

The giant pink box is the only reason Dean doesn’t call security.

He slips the keycard into the slot next to the heavy front door of his hotel room and lights flicker on one by one. The giant cupcake box is even more vibrant in the splash of lamp light. Dean grabs it off the bed and perches on the edge of the too-soft mattress, the transparent plastic film in the lid reveals a card and six numbered parcels in Christmas gift wrap. There are little penguins in scarves on the paper, how cute.

It’s been a long day, with the morning spent on the road and a grueling afternoon of rehearsals and soundcheck. After a quick dinner of a tasteless catered chicken and rice in a box, Dean spent the rest of the night performing on stage and singing his heart out. He loves the rush of performing live, loves the throbbing echoes of his fans screaming his name and singing along to every song. Every time a concert goes off without a hitch, he’s reminded why he puts up with the crazy schedules and endless travelling and a lack of a personal life.

To quote _Sense8_ , art is love made public, and Dean loves music above anything else in the world. Loves it enough to spend Christmas and New Year on tour. Tour dates that fall on major holidays are the hardest; Dean sees his family so little as is, but Christmas and New Year are extra hard. Despite his public persona as a bad boy rocking way too much guyliner, Dean’s a family man at heart, and nothing warms him like a home cooked turkey meal with all the trimmings washed down with a mug of boozy eggnog.

Next year, he’s going to insist on taking Christmas off.

Dean opens the familiar box and lifts the card with careful fingers as if he’s expecting the package to explode. His name is written in cursive on the envelope, and when Dean opens the card—a cupcake covered in glitter with a candle stuck in the icing on the cover—the same neat cursive greets him.

_Unwrap parcels one, two, and three and nothing else. When you’re done, call this number: xxx-xxx-9876_

It’s not signed, and Dean’s suspicious even though he has an inkling who the parcel is from. Not that his schedule is a secret or anything, in fact, it’s the exact opposite, but he’s not exactly within walking distance, and no one should know where he’s staying for the night.

Dean stares at the packages, reads the card again, flips it around to see if it offers anymore information (it doesn’t), and looks up at the clock on the nightstand. Half past one in the morning. He pulls out his phone and dials the number, thumb hovering over the call button as bricks of uncertainty fall around him.

What if it’s not from who he thinks? What if it’s a rabid fan? Someone had snuck into his dressing room once, and Dean shudders as he remembers the unpleasant experience with clarity. It doesn’t happen often, his security team does a bang on job of keeping him, well, secure, but occasionally someone slips through the cracks.

The phone screen dims, then shuts off, and Dean’s still frozen, anticipation and excitement and dread warring in his head. He reads the card one more time, then reaches for the parcel with a neat _one_ written in the center. It’s rectangular, about the height of a soda can. He shakes the box and presses a ear to it, listening to the muted rattle. _Christ, Dean, just open the fucking thing, and if it’s a cloud of poison, at least you died a rockstar._

Dean rips the wrapping paper down the center, glimpses a swatch of green on the cardboard box, and unwraps the package. “Oh my god, what the—” Dean’s eyebrows take a hike up his forehead as he stares at the brand new, in-box vibrating butt plug in ‘emerald green,’ says the packaging. He pops the lid and slides the silicone plug into his waiting hand. It’s smooth, weighed at the front, and rounded at the tip in a gentle curve.

It looks so new age it can pass for abstract decorations for some fancy show home.  

The package labeled _two_ is a four pack of triple A batteries. Dean stares at it, but it takes a moment before realization hits him between the eyes with a rolled up newspaper. On the back of the plug is a little plastic cover, behind it a hollow for two triple A batteries.

Parcel three is a fresh bottle of lube. It’s lemon custard flavoured.

_Oh._

Dean’s face burns hotter than stage lights as he worries at his bottom lip. The phone’s black screen stares at him from the mattress where he abandoned it, and Dean inhales through his nose and exhales through his mouth a few more times before grabbing for it. Fuck it, possibilities be damned, this has _got_ to be _him_.

He unlocks the screen, and black fades to make way for the number still in his dialer. Dean hits call before he chickens out and holds his breath. Two rings, four rings, and when Dean thinks about hanging up, a soft click, and the call goes through.

“Hello, Dean.”

The cat stuck in Dean’s throat retracts its claws and he coughs. “What the fuck, Cas? Where are you?”

“Home, in bed, actually,” Cas answers, nonchalant.

“Were you here? At the show? How the hell did you know where—how d’you get in—”

“Yes, I was there. No, I did not attend the concert, and no, I did not bribe anyone,” Cas says. “Your security team is very impressive, Dean.”

“Then how—”     

“Did you open packages one, two, and three like I instructed?”

Instructed? Dean closes his eyes as another wave of heat flushes through him. Cas is so fucking arrogant, but he’s just this side of bossy and it leaves Dean’s skin tingling, his throat tight and his pants tighter. “I, uh, did.” He will get answers, but perhaps the twenty questions can wait.

“Did you put the batteries in?” Cas’ voice is all no nonsense and rumbling, like the smooth purr of a well-loved engine.

“Not yet.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“Wanted to make sure it wasn’t a bomb first.”

“Well, it will blow your mind,” Cas says, and Dean can hear the smirk in his voice. “You have two minutes to get it cleaned, powered, and prepped.”

Dean blinks, grip tightens around the slim cell phone. “What? Right now?”

“Tic toc, Dean.”

Three little words, yet they hold such power over him. Dean shivers and drops the phone on the bed, puts it on speaker, then grabs the toy and rushes into the bathroom. He washes the girthy, curvy piece of silicone with soap and warm water and dries the plug with a clean towel before scrambling back onto the bed. The battery package takes a little wrestling, and Dean sends half the pack flying across the room, but he manages to shove two into the plug.

Dean reaches for the lube and stills. Cas said prep, but did he mean prep the toy or himself? As if Cas can read his thoughts from a state over and through the phone, Cas says, “Prep the toy, Dean. I want to hear you open yourself for me.”

“Uh—right,” Dean mutters and rips the shrink wrap from the bottleneck of the lube. When he pops the lid, the sweet scent of lemon and vanilla rocks him to his core. It’s artificial, but it’s reminiscent enough of Cas’ freshly made lemon custard that Dean swallows, and his pants shrink another inch.

“When you’re done, set it aside, turn up the heat, then get undressed.” A pop unlike the one Dean’s lube bottle made drifts through the speakers. “I want you comfortable.”

Holy shit. What the fuck is happening? Dean frowns into his empty room, only it’s not so empty with Cas on speaker phone, cradled in a bundle of rough hotel sheets. “Right. Uh, okay. Be right back.” Dean gets up and turns the thermostat up a few degrees.

Kicking off his shoes, he pads back to the bed in socked feet and strips as quickly as he could. The heater kicks in, and the warm air is a soothing caress along his naked skin. Dean crawls into bed, his cock bobbing between his legs. They haven’t even done anything yet, hell, Cas isn’t even in the same state, and yet Dean’s already hard as a rock. The lube isn’t helping either.

“Okay,” Dean says as he sits cross legged. “I’m naked, it’s warm, and this goddamn lube—”

“I hoped you would like it.” Cas chuckles and the throaty sound vibrates through Dean as if Cas is here. “Are you hard, Dean?”

Christ, how does Cas _do_ that? Talk like this without a crack in his voice, not a hitch of breath, nothing to show he’s even affected by his words. Dean nods and slaps his forehead when he remembers Cas can’t see him. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m hard.”

“Very good.” Dean preens. “Stroke yourself, however you like, but make sure you use the lube.”

Dean grunts and reaches for the bottle on his nightstand. Drizzling a generous amount on the tip of his cock, Dean wraps his right hand around the shaft and smears the lube and his pre-come around until everything is slick and fragrant. With his fist tight around the shaft, Dean strokes up, every finger rubbing against the ridge of the head, then reverses the movement and strokes down. The lube is slick and sweet and grows warm between Dean’s fingers, and his cock strains and pulses in his grip.

Fuck, where did Cas find this lube? It’s so damn sweet. It’s driving Dean nuts, and he will never be able to smell lemons or vanilla again without bursting into flames. Dean’s eyes flutter shut, lips part as the tip of his tongue snakes out to lick at the air. His hand feels good, but when he pretends it’s Cas’ calloused grip around him, it’s phenomenal. It’s hot and wet and filthy, and the sounds of his fingers slicking over sensitive, velvety skin sends a blush like wildfire through him.

The familiar pressure increases in the pit of his stomach, and tension gathers at the base of his spine. Dean’s grip tighten, and his hips cant up to meet every downstroke. It’s so hot, so wet, and the artificial sweetness of lemon wraps around him in a shroud.  

“Tell me, Dean, how does your hand feel?” Cas’ voice is a splash of kerosene on fire and Dean nearly explodes.

“Fuck, Cas, so good,” Dean hisses as he chases the elusive rabbit, focus becoming razor sharp as he hones in on him.

“How good? Describe it.”

Dean’s stroke falters, and the rabbit escapes into the underbrush. “What do you mean?”

“Tell me what it feels like, is it hot? Tight? Slick? And don’t stop stroking.”

Dean’s face burns hotter than he ever imagined possible. He’s had his share of dirty talk, but this is beyond anything he’s done. His hand slows down, but Dean continues to tease the tender underside. “It’s—uh, wet, and really warm.” Dean pauses.

“ _Dean_.”

“My cock is hard, really fucking hard, Cas—”

“You’re so amazing, keep going.”

“—and I’m leaking, I can’t help it,” Dean murmurs. Something loosens in his chest. “The lube smells so fucking good, and I can’t stop thinking about last time, and I pretend it’s your hand around my cock, your fingers squeezing and stroking, and there’s this pressure in my gut like I’m gonna explode.”

“Stroke faster, Dean. Use more lube if you have to, get close for me, baby.”

Dean keens and jams his free fist into his mouth, his other hand moving in a blur as he chases his orgasm like his ass is on fire. It’s so close he can see it. Taste it. Feel it. Just needs a little more, a nudge, a scrape of fingernail and _Oh fucking Christ_ —

“Stop. Stop stroking. Let go of your erection, Dean.”

The words cut through the frenzy, and Dean gasps. He doesn’t want to let go. He’s so close. It’s _right there_. But he stops, his fingers spasm and shake as he lets go, and his balls draw close to his body, seeking the release that’s not coming. “F-fuck, Cas. _Fuck._ ”

“Take a deep breath”—Dean does—“and another. One more.”

Dean’s pulse slows, his heart drops the drum sticks and slumps over the snare, exhausted. He’s so warm, his body covered in sweat, and his arm burns with his earlier exertion. It takes a few moments, but eventually Dean’s cock calms down to a dull throb, though the head is a darker shade of purple and still leaking.

“How are you doing?” Cas’ sounds a little breathless. Huh, maybe the guy isn’t made of metal after all.

“I’m—” Dean takes a shaky breath and unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “That was a mean thing to do.”

“It’ll get easier,” Cas says. “Tease the slit a little, then stroke again, please.”

Dean swallows, presses the pad of his thumb against his slit and hisses, and wraps his hand back around his cock. Cas makes him talk, makes him describe in crude detail what he’s doing, what he’s imagining, and what he wants. Dean’s not a vocal guy in bed, and the few dirty words he mutters during sex is no where near the level of complexity Cas requires—no, demands of him. It’s both irritating and liberating, and before long, Dean’s offering bits and pieces without prompting, and Cas’ breathing grows shallow.

Cas is a mean son of a bitch, and after bringing himself to the edge for the fifth time only to be denied release, Dean’s drenched the sheets in sweat and he can’t see straight. His arm trembles, his cock burns with oversensitivity, and his lungs are ready to burst. This is prison-grade torture, and there’s probably something in the Geneva Convention banning this level of inhumane behaviour.

Despite the frustrations and the twitching in his muscles, Dean’s loose. And he’s floating, back in that headspace he didn’t know he could get into until Cas was choking him with his dick. It’s nice here, carefree, and almost relaxing if his balls weren’t trying to saw themselves off and go on strike.  

“Dean. Dean are you still with me?” Cas’ voice is laced with concern.

Oops, Dean’s been too quiet, trying to negotiate with his testicles. Double the salary, more vacation days, just please stick with him for a little while longer. “C-Cas, I can’t keep going—I need to come. _Please_.”

“Is the vibrator slicked up?” Cas continues as if Dean didn’t just break down and beg.

“Y-yeah.”

“Good boy, you’re doing so well,” Cas croons, and Dean shivers in delight. “Spread your legs for me, baby, slick two fingers and open yourself up.”

Dean throws his head against the mountain of pillows behind him and swallows, but he does as he’s told and grabs the lube. There’s no reason for him to be embarrassed, no one’s here to see him, they’re not even video calling, but heat flushes from his toes to the tips of his ears, anyway. With his legs spread wide, Dean’s exposed. A chill shudders through him, and he’s grateful Cas told him to turn up the heat. His hand moves between his legs, and he reaches for his dick—

“Do not touch your erection.” Cas’ voice jumps through the phone and slaps his hand away. Dean flinches. “Play with your hole, close our eyes and imagine it’s my tongue there, tasting you.”

Christ on a _cracker_. Cas kissed him with that filthy mouth just a month ago. Dean groans and reaches down, past his straining erection, past his balls still drawn tight against his body, and rubs a slick circle around his puckered ring of muscle. The lube is warm, but the sweat clinging to his skin chills him despite the ambient temperature. Dean bites his bottom lip, swallows the thin little whine that almost escapes his throat.

“I want to hear you. Your moans, whimpers, every noise, they all belong to me.”

Cas’ words kick down the dam guarding his emotions, and a tide of inexplicable feelings rush out in a violent torrent. Dean gasps, not sure if it’s from the way his chest clenches or the way his fingers—both of them—are pushing into him, stretching him open. His eyes blink shut, lids too heavy, and on the next exhale, he moans Cas’ name, loud and filthy and utterly satisfying.

“Reach further. Find it for me, then tell me how it feels.”

His hand cramps as he folds his wrist forward, reaching another inch inside himself until his fingertips brush against his prostate. Electricity zaps through him, shoots up his spine and explodes in his brain in a spectacular display of fireworks. Dean cries out, head lolling forward, but he doesn’t stop, reaches for the little bundle again and taps.

“C-Christ, Cas, it’s like— _fuck_ —like pins, and the pressure, oh God,” Dean gasps and reaches further, curls his fingers until he’s thrusting against his prostate with precision. His cock strains against his stomach, smearing pre-come into his sweat-slicked skin. Dean twitches, even that little friction is too much, and his cock blurts out another pearl of sticky fluid.  

“Bet you’re so fucking tight,” Cas hisses, and the hitch in his breath draws another moan from Dean. “Your cock, tell me what your cock looks like.”

Dean pulls a few shaky breaths, forces his eyes open, and stares down at his desperate cock. “Red—no, purple. The head is purple. So hard it kinda hurts, it’s so raw, Cas. I want to touch it, please please please let me touch it.”

“No.”

Dean keens, and wonders if he can lean down and take the head in his mouth. Cas didn’t say he couldn’t _suck_ himself. He tries, maybe, just a little, then shakes his head and leans back again with an exasperated chuckle. Fuck, how desperate is he to think he’s flexible enough to suck his own dick?

A rustle and a whisper like fabric against skin. Perhaps Cas is getting comfortable in bed. “Get the plug, Dean.”

Dean sucks in a quivering breath and reaches for the plug. “Yeah, okay, I got it.”

“Work the tip in.”

Dean reaches between the vee of his legs with both hands and presses the curved tip past his hole. It’s girthier than it looks, and just the tip leaves Dean panting.   

“Move closer to the phone, then turn the plug on. I want to hear it, and I want to hear you.”

“God, Cas, fuck, this thing is bigger than it looks…” Dean scoots closer to the phone and turns the dial. The heavy plug buzzes to life, and Dean groans on an exhale.

“More, Dean. Push it in all the way, and when it’s in, turn it up one notch.” Cas sounds strained, breath shorter, words more clipped. Dean smirks despite his own sorry state, then pushes the plug in.

It spreads him, every inch sitting snug inside him, stretches him until the burn is just this side of too much. When the widest part slips past his ring of abused muscle, Dean gasps and curls in on himself. The base lodges between his cheeks, and it takes Dean a few moments to still the tremor in his hands before he turns the vibrations up a notch.

_Holy fucking mother of God._

The plug purrs. Unlike the vibrators Dean’s used in the past, this one has a silky vibration, smooth, almost like velvet. He shifts his hips, wanting to release pressure off the small of his back, and the curved tip brushes against his prostate.

A jolt of lightning strikes him, sparks fly through his veins and into his capillaries until his whole body zings with sweet rapture. Dean freezes, terrified to move, but also craving that pleasure again and again until he faints.

“ _Dean_ , that sound you make, it’s driving me wild.” Cas sounds as wrecked as Dean feels. “Do it again. Press it against your prostate and don’t let up.”

Did he make a noise? Dean’s not even sure anymore, doesn’t care either. All that matters right now is Cas’ voice, his demands, and Dean’s need to fulfill every request. To make Cas happy. It should scare him the man he’s only met and slept with twice had slipped into his hotel room, left him a vibrating butt plug that’s currently shredding his sanity, and is now reducing him to a mewling, trembling bundle of raw nerves and want. But it doesn’t.

There’s something about Cas, and Dean’s drawn to it like a pyromaniac to a burning building. Dean loves his career and he loves his fans, but when he’s with Cas, he can forget about his life for a while. Forget about the persona he slips into along with his jeans and t-shirt every morning. Cas strips him bare, peels him back until he’s just _Dean_.

And just _Dean_ hasn’t been a state of mind for him for a long time. It’s comforting. It’s liberating. It’s safe. _He’s_ safe when he’s with Cas, and he’s becoming addicted to that fuzzy warmth. It’s not prudent, but Dean doesn’t care when his cock is twitching and leaking, and his body is vibrating in harmony to the damn plug that’s hollowing him out.

His voice—gruff and husky from a night of performing—bounces off the walls, adds a splash of vibrant colour to the sterile paint. Dean should worry about his voice carrying, should worry about the ever expanding longing blossoming in his chest, but all he can focus on is the pressure, the fuzzy vibrations wrapping around him like a thick, luxurious bathrobe.

“Fuck—C-Cas, I can’t—it’s too much, it’s not enough. I need—need—” He doesn’t know what he needs, only that he _needs_.

“Turn it all the way up.”

Dean’s fingers slip, and it takes a few tries before he finds the nob and turns it to the max. White light explodes behind his closed eyelids. His body locks up. Muscles taut like a strung bow. He cries out, hips fly off the damp sheets as his back arches.

He clenches around the plug. Desperate. Tingling. Ready to explode. Cas said to press it in place, but it’s too much and he can’t hold still and it’s so thick and hard and—“Fuck!” Dean shouts, voice sharp, and he’s sobbing.

“Come, baby, come with me.”

Somehow Cas’ voice cuts through the red haze of painful pleasure, a lifeline Dean clutches to his chest. _Come with me_. Not for me. The image of Cas’ long fingers squeezing the head of his cock, his piercing sparkling with a copious amount of pre-come and slick flashes across the back of Dean’s eyelids. Cas’ lithe body tense, thick muscles straining, naked skin gleaming with sweat. His beautiful cock, girthy and heavy and so fucking delicious throbbing and pulsing—

Dean presses the plug against his prostate with both hands, pushes down on the smooth piece of scorching silicone until his insides are scrambled. His gut twists, abs clench so tightly he’s bowing over, then the first squirt of pearly white come blurts out and rolls down the backside of his untouched cock.

Glob after glob pulses from the slit, a steady trickle painting his too-hot cock with even hotter come. There’s so much of it, like it’ll never stop as come drips down his balls and pools on the sheets. Dean growls, his half lidded eyes staring but unseeing. He hangs in limbo, his gasps and cries mix with Cas’ strained whimper and Dean’s name hissed through the speakers. It wasn’t the most earth-shattering, mind-blasting orgasm he’s ever had, and yet, he’s sated like he’s never been.

Dean turns off the switch, but he leaves the plug in, imagining it’s Cas’ cock, spent but not soft yet, buried in him, holding him open still. It’s another few heartbeats before Cas clears his throat.

“That was—you are amazing, Dean. I hope you know that.” Cas slurs his words. He sounds drunk, indulged, voice soft and buttery. Like one of his salted caramel cupcakes.

“Fuck, man, I’ve...I’ve never done that before.”

“What, phone sex or getting your prostate milked?”

Dean’s cheeks burn. “Uh, both?”

“How do you feel?”

“Like I got hit by a train. A soft, fuzzy, marshmallow train, but a train nonetheless.”

“Open package number four.”    

Dean doesn’t want to move, even blinking is too much effort, but he grunts and pulls the forgotten pink box close and fishes out parcel number four. It’s a bottle of water. That bastard. “You think of everything, don’t you?” Dean chuckles and twists off the cap with a crack.

“Drink at least half of it. You’ve lost a lot of fluid, Dean.”

“Getting hit by a vibrating marshmallow train will do that to a man.” Dean sips the water, enjoys the cool liquid on his parched tongue. “Can I open five and six yet?”

“Sure.”

“Gonna gimme a hint?”

“No.”

Dean whines something unintelligible and caps the water bottle, then rips into the remaining two gifts. Five turns out to be a thermos, and six is a delicate rectangle of something that smells like apple pie, but looks like fruitcake. He struggles into a sitting position, twists open the thermos, and the warm fragrance of nutmeg wraps around him like a cloud. “Is this...eggnog? And fruitcake?”

“Home made, fresh eggnog. And apple pie fruitcake,” Cas says, his voice muffled as if he’s stifling a yawn. “You mentioned your affinity for apple pie last time you were here.”

The lump in his throat threatens to choke him, and Dean swallows, hard, as the sour sting of tears pricks the corners of his eyes. He takes a sip from the thermos, and the unmistakable sweetness of rum and eggnog coats his tongue. It tastes like Christmas. It tastes like home. “You drove to another state and snuck into my hotel room just to drop off eggnog and fruitcake?”

“Yes, and a prostate massager and batteries because I am a thoughtful person.”

Dean snorts, then throws his head back and laughs like he hasn’t in a long time. He’s sore as hell, his body one giant tub of putty. He’s still stretched around the plug, and it’s a comforting fullness he didn’t know he needed. His laughter leaves him boneless, soft, happy, and Dean basks in this feeling for a moment longer before whispering, “Thanks.”

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

“You too, Cas.”

“Oh, and one more thing.”

“Hm?”

“Now you have my number.” Cas hangs up. Dean blinks.

Oh.

_Oh._


End file.
